


Brew-ha-ha

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: An excerpt of a fic I will write at some goddamn point, Another Ridiculous Au Based on Fox's Career History, Brewer Bucky, Gen, Publican Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 08:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15263454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: “Fuck,” Bucky sighs, and gets back to work.





	Brew-ha-ha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidheann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann/gifts).



> I became a brewer by mistake in 2009. In 2012 I repeated that mistake by settling up a damn brewery, and continue to make terrible decisions to this day.  
> This will be a full fic at some point. Don't ask me when. In the meantime, this excerpt is dedicated to Eidheann, the best beta reader a Fox could ask for. Thank you for kicking my grammatical ass and making me a better writer (albeit one who makes terrible career choices)

The phone in Bucky’s pocket starts to vibrate. He turns off the valve with a curse and pulls off his thick gloves, dumping them on top of the hot liquor tank before rummaging around in his caustic-stained combat trousers for his phone.  
He checks the phone, and doesn’t recognise the number, but slides his thumb across to answer anyway.  
“Hey Barnes, this beer of yours is fucking rank!” a voice bellows down the line.  
Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Who is this?”  
The cask clamped between his ankles overflows, spilling Best Bitter over his rigger boots. Bucky curses under his breath and checks the valve, pulling it all the way closed.  
Stupid. He needs to be more careful.  
The asshole on the line continues his diatribe, though it seems to be the same damn thing repeated over and over while Bucky mutters ‘uh-huh’ and positions a plastic shive over the hole in the curved side of the cask.  
“One moment,” he says to the asshole, before hammering the shive into the hole with three deft strikes of a rubber mallet. He rolls the full cask across the floor and levers it upright, the cold metal digging into his bare fingers, his boots squelching in the spilled beer.  
“You were saying?” Bucky says with false cheer, walking through to the office to check his sales book.  
“I said the beer you sold me is piss!” the asshole snaps.   
Bucky flicks through the pages, checking the sales over the last month. His craptop is sitting idle, so he wakes it up, and searches for customers by name while asshole complains in his ear.  
“The Ship Inn on Silver Street, is that right?” Bucky clarifies.  
“Yes, don’t fob me off with a replacement, my customers won’t touch your-”  
Bucky grits his teeth. Fuck this.  
“Well no wonder they don’t like it, you haven’t bought any beer from me in two years,” Bucky snaps.  
“No, I have definitely-”  
“Yeah, it’s right here on the system. October 17th, one nine gallon cask of Mild. Your cheque bounced the first time, if I remember rightly.”  
“Don’t you call me a fucking liar-”  
“Listen here, pal,” Bucky snarls. “You need to think really carefully. Did you actually get that beer from a friend of yours? Another landlord who over-ordered, and wanted to get rid of the out of date stock? Real cheap too, what did you pay? £40? £35?”  
“Fuck you,” the asshole hisses. “I’m not buying your shit again.”  
He hangs up, and Bucky stares at the phone for a moment. “Oh no,” he says flatly. “How will I go on without you.”  
He slips the phone back into his pocket, and feels an edge of guilt creep its way into his guts.   
Okay, that was a stupid mistake. The last thing he needs is another landlord cursing his name to anyone who’ll listen.  
“Fuck,” Bucky sighs, and gets back to work.

He hoses down the beer-soaked floor, watching the suds run down the sloping floor to the drain at the far end, and sluices out the transfer pipe before chucking it into the bin full of weak acid solution to sterilise.  
He writes up a label and slaps it on the top of the cask, before updating the cask-tracking system. For all the fancy terminology, it’s nothing more than writing the pub name and the serial number stamped on the side of the cask in a notebook.   
Bucky rolls the cask outside and opens up the van, hefting the cask up onto his bent knee and then the rest of the way onto the dented wooden flooring, shoving it across and climbing in after. He fastens the cask to the back wall with a ratchet strap, and climbs out again, pusing to catch his breath before slamming the door shut.  
Last time the Ship had ordered, he’d had a decent sized second hand Peugeot Expert, with a load length that was long enough for him to lie down in, if he didn’t mind getting sticky. Now he made do with a Ford Escort of dubious origins, the soda company decal on the sides had long since peeled away, but left an indelible mark that pricked at Bucky’s subconscious to Drink Coke.  
He pulls the band holding his long hair out of his eyes as he goes back into the brewery, combing his fingers through the tangles before gathering it all up and putting the band back in place with deft movements. He takes a last walk around the brewery, checking that everything is turned off, except the things that need to be turned on, and grabs the invoice for his cask of beer and a pump clip.  
He locks up behind himself and climbs into the van, dumping his stuff on the passenger seat and slotting the key into the ignition.  
The engine coughs and splutters, and at the last second catches, grinding into life. Bucky puts the van into reverse, edging his way out of the yard, and onto the street.

***

Bucky tries not to judge when it comes to bars, telling himself that his standards are low enough that he’d drink anywhere, but the Prince of Wales? Yeah, he’d down a half as quick as he could and get out of there before someone swiped the wheels off his van.  
The pub stands next to a canal, which would in theory make it charming and bucolic. In practice its on the edge of an abandoned industrial estate, and canal water trickles constantly into the beer cellar. After a bad thunderstorm the water in there is ankle deep and distressingly chunky.   
Bucky loops a rope around the handle on the cask of Bitter and lowers it down into the cellar, before climbing down after it. The walls of the beer cellar are furred with what he hopes is algae, lit by a single bare bulb. He unties the rope from around the cask and clambers out again, pushing the cellar doors shut behind him, and grabs the invoice and pump clip from the van before heading inside.  
There is no one behind the bar so Bucky waits around, his feet sticking slightly to the ancient, beer-soaked carpet. He’d lean on thee bar while he waits, but for the mild conviction he’d be stuck permanently.  
There is a clatter from upstairs, a heavy thump of feet on stairs, and the landlord shuffles into view.  
Bucky holds up the invoice, and the landlord (Dave? Half of them are called Dave) blinks owlishly.  
“Wasn’t expecting you until Thursday,” he says finally.  
“It is Thursday,” Bucky lays the invoice out for him to check and sign.  
Dave-or-Something shrugs, as if days of the week bear little import, and checks the invoice. “Hang on…”  
Bucky steels himself for the usual haggling over price, rocking back on his heels.  
“This isn’t what I ordered.”  
Bucky frowns, and glances down at the invoice. “A nine of Best Bitter, that’s what you asked for.” Bucky had spoken to him Monday morning, writing down the order in a scrawl of biro in the sales book.  
“I asked for a Pale Ale. Your sales guy got it wrong.”  
Bucky grits his teeth to keep from cursing. There is no sales guy, it’s just him. No delivery driver, no cask washer, no assistant brewer, it’s all just him.  
“I’m sorry about that,” Bucky forces a smile. The cask is already fined and in the cellar, and with the finings it’ll only be good for a week, less with all the jolting around in the back of his van. “Can you make do with the Bitter for now?”  
Bucky tries to keep his features impassive, but he can’t afford to throw away a perfectly good cask of beer.  
Dave-or-Something shakes his head. “I don’t need Bitter, I need something pale.”  
Then why the fuck did you order Bitter?  
Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. The guy is cheap, and complains non-stop, but he buys beer fairly often, and Bucky can’t afford to lose him, not with so many other breweries out there desperate to make a sale.   
“No problem,” Bucky picks up the invoice. “A nine of Pale Ale, I’ll be back in an hour.”  
He heads out the door before Dave-or-Something can change his mind, screwing up the invoice and shoving it in his pocket.  
He fetches the rope from the van and manhandles the cask of Bitter out of the cellar, before heaving it back into the van.  
Fuck.

The phone in Bucky’s pocket starts vibrating, and for a brief, glorious moment he seriously considers throwing the damn thing in the canal.  
Bucky sighs, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt to ease the lingering ache from dragging casks around, and answers.  
“Yeah?”  
“Bucky?” a familiar voice says hesitantly, as if there was anyone else to answer the damn phone. “It’s Steve. Uh… Steve Rogers.”  
Bucky just manages to stop himself from saying something stupid. “Hey, Steve. What’s up?”  
Steve makes a little humming sound, which usually means he’s working his way up to asking something. Bucky waits for him to get his act together, giving the ratchet straps holding the cask in place a quick tug to make sure they’re secure before shutting the van door.  
“C’mon, Rogers. Out with it,” Bucky chivvies him along, his mouth crooking up a little.  
“Can I get a delivery?” Steve blurts out. “I mean today. Soon?” There is a brief pause. “I mean, if you’re busy then I can-”  
“Nah, I can do it today. I got another drop first, so it’ll be at least an hour.”  
“Bucky you lifesaver,” Steve enthuses. “Dugan landed a new contract and he’s drinking the place dry.”  
Bucky glances at the van. “Will a nine of Bitter do you?”  
Steve doesn’t answer immediately, which means no, but he doesn’t want to admit it.  
“What d’you need?” Bucky sighs.  
“A stout?”  
Bucky scrubs the palm of his hand against his forehead. He has one stout left, that he’d been reserving for delivery next week. Which means if he gives Steve the stout he’ll have to brew more tomorrow.   
“Sure. Fine.” Bucky resigns himself to another long day in a countless run of long fucking days. “Be with you in an hour.”  
“Buck, you are a lifesaver. Thank you.”  
Bucky grumbles down the line and hangs up, but there’s a soft edge in Steve’s tone that lingers in his ears.  
Damnation, it would be easier to say no to the guy if he wasn’t so fucking _cute_.


End file.
